


The Meteoric Maid and the Wicked Witch

by fiftymillionstars



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:54:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiftymillionstars/pseuds/fiftymillionstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Sassacre Household isn't like other happy families. Oh no, not at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Meteoric Maid and the Wicked Witch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [odditycollector](https://archiveofourown.org/users/odditycollector/gifts).



> WOW OK so I wrote this in 2 hours after discovering the original draft kind of shat on canon and then laughed in its face, so I'm pretty proud of it for the time limit I had to do it in! There's not a lot of sleuthing in it, unfortunately, so if you'd like to take a gander at the other draft, [here it is!](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1q5-9obwl3LGu2SiOtGZh9poqPFkXoW79QZ_b1zh2Imc/edit)
> 
> One day I will write that FefKan Blackrom manifesto, but unfortunately today is just Not That Day.

Her earliest memory is of a funeral.  
  
It is dark and gloomy, rain dripping down from above to splash mournfully on the coats and umbrellas of those in attendance. A blanket of silence hangs over the group, broken only by the gentle white noise of the rain and the occasional sniffle or cough. There is an ebony box in front of a muddy hole in the ground.  
  
She is held in a woman's arms underneath a large black umbrella. The woman's hair is long and dark and tickles her cheek. She is mad at the woman because the woman put her in a stiff high-collared dress, uncomfortable on the best of days but miserable in the humid rain. She squirms in the woman's arms.  
  
A boy stands beside the woman, holding her hand in one of his. He is the same size as she, and she remembers wanting to play with him, but the woman won't let her down.  
  
In the front of the crowd a priest stutters to life, launching into a monotone speech about the dearly beloved and God and Heaven. She ignores him, attention caught instead by the gold band on the woman's finger. She reaches out for it, grasping the shiny object in her tiny meaty fist.  
  
Quick as a flash, the woman grabs her arm, squeezing tight. She lets out a little toddler wail. A nearby patron murmurs in sympathy.  
  
"Poor little things," she hears him say. "Losing their father so suddenly. Can't be more than a year old yet and Daddy's already in the grave."  
  
The woman lets go of her arm and turns her head to whisper.  
  
"That's mine, little one," she says, all sibilant consonants and clipped vowels. Her voice does not match the gloomy stranger beside her, or the droning priest to the front. It is strange and alien; far different than anything she had heard before. She falls still, some primal instinct directing her to become small and unnoticed. On the woman's other side, the boy lets out a small whimper. The woman bends down and picks him up as if for comfort, but she can see the woman's nails digging into his flesh, leaving pale moons embedded in his skin. From under one fingernail a bead of scarlet wells.

* * *

  
  
_(“I can’t take this! She’s horrible!”_  
  
 _The sound of a child crying._  
  
 _“Shhh, it’s okay! It’s okay! Don’t cry! One day we’ll run away together, you’ll see, you’ll see! Then we’ll be free of her. Forever!)_  
  
Jane Sassacre, age 9. A quiet and reserved child, speaking only when spoken to.  
  
Jake Sassacre, age 9. Less outgoing than his sister, but still much more reserved and mature for a child of his age.  
  
A father, dead. A tyrant mother.  
  
Jane observes families, when she can. Because she is so quiet, she can slip about unnoticed. Those that talk and make merry often do not notice her. She slips by as a phantom, a little ghostly trickster.  
  
She sees mothers holding newborn babies tenderly. She sees mothers holding hands of toddlers just learning to walk. She sees mothers going shopping with children her age. She sees mothers mothering.  
  
Jane’s mother does not mother Jane, or Jake. Jane’s mother trains them, as if they are animals.  
  
Jane and Jake do something bad: no supper.  
  
Jane and Jake pull off a prank: no supper.  
  
Jane and Jake ask a question about their late father: no supper.  
  
Sometimes it seems to Jane that they are punished for merely breathing, for existing, for being.  
  
Jane sees all this, and she takes note.  
  
(1: The Mother Who Isn’t.)

* * *

  
  
_(“Look here! It says if you write an apology for something silly on a cake, it increases its hilarity by 300 points!”_  
  
 _“You mean something like, ‘Sorry For Accidentally Setting The Stove On Fire’?”_  
  
 _“Yeah! Like that! And then you throw it in the person’s face!”_  
  
 _“Should we try it?”_  
  
 _“Yes!”)_  
  
Colonel Sassacre is a famous name amongst those who would seek a laugh from others. He is renowned and respected, well-liked and well-followed.  
  
It is a shame, then, that his children are forbidden from reading his books or learning his craft. They do so in secret, of course, hiding away from prying eyes and reading the old southern gentleman’s tome, laughing and giggling and hushing one another. Sometimes they are found, and they go without supper for two nights. Sometimes they simply must try a prank, and they go without supper for three.  
  
Lectures come about how good little children behave. Spankings come, to teach them to be good little children. Suppers go, to punish them for not being good little children.  
  
Good little children, it seems, know nothing about their fathers. Good little children do what their mother tells them to do. Good little children know that Mother Knows Best.  
  
Jake and Jane are not good little children. Thick as thieves, they plot secret defiances of their mother’s orders. They call her the Batterwitch. They neglect to eat their vegetables.  
  
(2: The Father Who Wasn’t.)

* * *

  
  
_(“Isn’t he the coolest, though?”_  
  
 _“Who?”_  
  
 _“Charles Muntz, that’s who!”_  
  
 _“Who’s that?”)_  
  
Jane Sassacre, age 16. Quiet and reserved, with a sparkle in her eyes that only a good prank can bring. Her laugh, say those who have heard it, it musical. Her smile is as sweet as a strawberry.  
  
Jake Sassacre, age 16. An idiot. A lovable idiot, but an idiot nonetheless. Clueless in matters of love and basic algebra. A boy who loves adventure, willing to take any risk.  
  
At some point they had to part. All good things end, after all.  
  
Jane remains steadfastly loyal to her father’s pranks and tricks. Jake’s heart wanders into the great blue beyond, yearning for sights and smells yet unseen.  
  
When they were little, they hid under the stairs one day. Jane cried salty tears that masked the sweetness of the cake they had just eaten. Jake held her in his arms. They promised they would run away together.  
  
He is ready to leave, chomping at the bit with the wild enthusiasm of youth.  
  
She is scared of what retribution will come, as it surely will.  
  
He tells her that if he can’t change her mind, he’ll respect her wishes. But he has to leave.  
  
He tells her he believes in her. That there isn’t any danger. That she can handle whatever the batterwitch dishes out.  
  
He tells her he loves her.  
  
When he is gone, she cries salty tears that mask the sweetness of the cake she’s just eaten.  
  
(3: The Brother Who Vanished.)

* * *

  
  
_(‘Beat the cake mix, cocoa, mayonnaise, eggs, and water in a large bowl with an electric mixer set on low speed. Increase speed to high and beat for 2 more minutes. Pour batter into prepared pans and bake until a toothpick inserted into the middle comes out clean — about 35 minutes.’_  
  
 _“Young adventurer Jake Harley’s set another new record today, folks! What a man! It seems like nothing can deter this fellow from pursuing his dreams, doesn’t it!”)_  
  
Lessons, lessons, lessons. Lessons learned and lessons missed.  
  
Jane learns to hate cakes and cookies and eclairs and merengues and other sweet desserts.  
  
Jane learns to make them well.  
  
She learns how to fold batter, how to properly grease a baking tin, how to make desserts for large parties or just for two. She could be a world-famous baker, perhaps, at how well she learns and how earnestly she tackles each new lesson.  
  
Of course, there are punishments for concepts not grasped and facts forgotten. Jane learns that, too.  
  
Jane learns many things.  
  
(4: The Lessons That Hobbled.)

* * *

  
_(“You can do it! You can do it! You can- You can-”_  
  
 _“Jake, I’m- I’m scared- I miss you-”_  
  
 _“You can do it, Jane-”)_  
  
There is a knock.  
  
The door is oaken and thick, guarding the chambers of the elusive Mrs. Sassacre.  
  
It opens.  
  
Jane freezes.  
  
The woman in front of her is all wrong. Her skin is the colour of fine ash, her hair as black as india ink. Her lips are a startling fuchsia, parted to reveal shark-like teeth. There is a glimmer of scales on her skin, and where ears should be two fins flare delicately, fuchsia-tinted membranes supported by three spiked tines. The nose is flattened and snakelike. And there are horns, candy-corn horns, delicately curving away from each other and ending in blunted tips.  
  
Still more is wrong: between the fingers there is webbing to the second knuckle, and where there should be fingernails there are thick yellow claws, pointed and strong. And there seems to be too much of that india-black hair, flowing everywhere like the tentacles of some long-forgotten sea creature.  
  
(Fi—)  
  
“Come in,” says this dreadful apparition, and the voice hisses and burbles like a monstrous fish.  
  
Jane has no choice but to obey.  
  
(Five—)  
  
“What is it, child?”  
  
There is no affection in that terrible voice, just malice.  
  
(5: The—)  
  
“It’s— It’s my brother—”  
  
The facial fins flare outwards, the fuchsia flush in the membranes darkening. The smile vanishes.  
  
(5: The Creature—)  
  
“You miss him, do you? You want to see him again, do you?”  
  
A nod.  
  
(5: The Creature Who—)  
  
The smile returns, slow and creeping.  
  
“It will never happen. Ever.”  
  
(Who—)  
  
Jane’s heart feels as if it might crack in two. “Why?!”  
  
A laugh, horrible in its sound, is drawn from the throat of this creature. “Because I have made it so, and I will continue to make it so, for as long as you draw breath. Once upon a time!”  
  
The last is shouted unexpectedly, and Jane jumps back, startled.  
  
“Once upon a time,” purrs the batterwitch, “there was a man and a woman, happily married. The man did tricks. The woman baked cakes. They were happy.”  
  
She rises from her seat, golden jewelery clinking melodiously. Her movements are swift, fluid, and predatory.  
  
“Then from the skies descended a meteor, with a baby girl atop it. It was you! How strange. The man and the woman took the child in. You see, they wanted a baby, but the woman was infertile.” A clawed hand comes to rest on her own stomach.  
  
“All seemed well, until a second meteor fell from the sky, with a boy atop it! Alas, alas, it killed the man, and the woman grieved. She wanted to throw the grubs in the trash. She wanted to riddle them full of holes and leave them to rot. She wanted their blood.”  
  
In a flash, there is a trident poking Jane’s throat, the tines painfully pressing into her skin. Jane struggles to keep breathing. She trembles.  
  
“But the man had made her promise to take care of the children, so the woman did not cull them.” Slowly the trident is pulled away.  
  
“So the woman decided to exact her punishment in other ways. She raised the children as she saw fit, and what did she get? Ingratitude. Pranks. Rebellion. Selfish, selfish children.”  
  
Jane swallows hard. Gold and ebony eyes pierce her blue ones.  
  
“You see,” continues the batterwitch, voice a seductive purr, “the two children were destined to fall in love and marry. They were to have two children, a boy and a girl! And these children of the children were destined to save the world!”  
  
The batterwitch sits back down, crossing her legs elegantly. “The woman swore she would never let that happen. She decided that as long as she lived, she would keep the two ungrateful brats apart. And she did.”  
  
Jane, mouth dry, heart galloping, manages to speak. “But that’s— just a fairy tale! Babies can’t fall from the sky! What does this have to do with my brother?”  
  
Instantly the trident is back, the alien face inches from her own, teeth bared in a feral snarl, facial fins flared. Jane lets out a little cry of fright.  
  
Slowly the dreadful apparition backs away. “You should show a little more respect for fairy tales, child,” she purrs. Everything about her screams danger.  
  
“After all, you’re in one.”  
  
(5: The Creature Who Triumphed.)

* * *

  
  
_(“If I pressure her here, she’ll have to give ground. But what if—”_  
  
 _“No, that won’t work. How about I come at it like this—?”_  
  
 _“Maybe, maybe, maybe if I—”)_  
  
Jane is brave. Jane is determined.  
  
Jane will stop at nothing to destroy the batterwitch. It is only fitting, Jane thinks, because the Batterwitch destroyed her childhood.  
  
An eye for an eye, an ear for an ear.  
  
So she plots and she schemes, laying out plans as a spider lays out his web. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, months to years.  
  
And then it was ready.  
  
(6: The Girl Who Plotted.)

* * *

  
  
_(“What do you mean, she’s dead?!”_  
  
 _“Gone?! Gone WHERE?!”)_  
  
But it seems the batterwitch was always one step ahead of Jane, for just as Jane is ready to put her her plan into motion, the very person it seeks to hurt ceases to exist.  
  
Jane is free.  
  
She is confused and not a little lost. Her guiding force for years has withered away overnight.  
  
Her fiance does his best to comfort her, and eventually she quiets. It takes months, but her desire for revenge fades.  
  
And then she is happily married, with a newborn boy.  
  
(7: The Tyrant Who Vanished.)

* * *

  
  
_(“Mother, how are you feeling today? Better?”_  
  
 _“Oh, much.”_  
  
 _“That’s good.”_  
  
 _“You know, we haven’t been to the joke shop in a while. Shall we give it a visit today?”)_  
  
The meteor is hot and burns like fire. She sees it coming and knows it to be her end. There is just enough time to finish writing a dedication in a thick tome.  
  
To John.  
  
(8: The Life That Ended.)

* * *

  
  
But it takes a little more than that to pull one over on a prankster, now doesn't it? Hoo hoo hoo! :B  
  
(9: The Prankster Who Didn’t.)

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to take a moment to thank my good friend [Donald Glover](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/childishgambino), without whom this would not have been possible. Thank you for being such a supporting friend! Thank you for making me throw out the original draft two hours before it was due! YEAH!!!
> 
> (no but I had so much fun, thank you so much, it was indeed for the best!! haha love you ya butt)


End file.
